


Any Ordinary Day

by Winterstar



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, F/M, Hurt Steve Rogers, Recovery, Romance, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: Captain Steve Rogers comes home from battle, injured, and broken. Trying to claw his way back to health and find a new place in the world seems impossible until he meets his new physical therapist - Peggy Carter. She challenges him to fight, to stand up, to continue to try. Along the way, they circle one another slowly getting closer until neither can deny the truth.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 27
Kudos: 93
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2018





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Marvel Trumps Hate (last year) story for mangsney. It took a year for me to get my act together to write it and to publish it. The whole story is finished, but I am still revising it. November was the deadline for last years MTH, so mangsney, you get some chapters over the next week or so while I revise and clean it up. I'm so sorry it took so long! I hope you like it. It's not exactly what we talked about but it is a love story of Steve and Peggy.

The sluicing sounds cutting the air wakes him. His eyes are groggy with pain and his mouth parched with thirst. Mud cakes his face, his hands, everything on him. He recognizes he’s lying down, strapped and secured. Something heavy wraps around his neck. His first inclination is that they didn’t escape the ambush. He’s been captured. His unit failed the mission. But then the minutes before the explosion fill his head with images of chaos, smoke, and gunfire. Screams fill his ears and orders scraped raw from his own throat come back to him as he struggles to get up, climb to his feet. He has to find his unit. His soldiers are depending on him. 

A hand placed on his chest stops him. A blurred figure hunches over him. Words are spoken, but he only catches snatches of them. “Cap-n. Don- move. —- injured. —- Med evacuated.”

He tries to speak, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and the sound like machetes slashing the air gets louder. Someone farther away announces permission to take off. His stomach rolls as he feels the ground beneath him lift and sway. A helicopter – that’s it – a small, still functioning part of his brain supplies. Medical evacuation. He shudders. The hand on his chest steadies him. 

The words resolve. “You’ll be okay, Captain Rogers. Don’t try to move. You’ve been seriously injured. We have you now. You’re safe.”

Steve manages enough saliva to lick his lips and form the words. “Buck? Sam? Rile-.” But he stops because he saw it. Riley falling out of the sky. He saw Sam diving for him. He saw the whole thing as the world went from the dark of night to the blasting light of day instantly. 

“Don’t try and talk, Captain.” An oxygen mask is slipped over his mouth and nose. He’s partly grateful for the obstruction. He doesn’t have to focus on the failed mission. On what happened to Riley, to Bucky. They’re gone. He survived. It shouldn’t have happened that way. Buck always stepped in when Steve fell, since they were children. No matter how many times Steve told him to stop. Bucky’s gone and Steve survived.

His body immediately rejects the idea, rejects him. He blanches and then retches. Firm and strong hands grip him. Someone tugs off the mask and he’s turned on the backboard he’s strapped to in order to vomit to the side. He pukes. It tastes like smoke and acid. Tears burn his eyes, and he vomits again. This time he knows it’s mucus and blood. Someone’s calling for help. He’s sobbing as the pain ratchets up. His bones rattle in his chest. It doesn’t matter anymore. He wants oblivion to take him. Two of his unit, his brothers in arms are dead because of him. They should have left him in the cold and dark night. They should have let the worms eat him alive. 

Steve’s grateful when the pain blinds him, when it hurts so much his voice is hoarse from crying. He sinks down into the pain like it’s a sanctuary from his guilt. He follows it further, not into the rabbit hole, but down deep into the vipers’ pit.

*oOo*  
Consciousness resolves around him in increments. Steve ignores it. He stays in a fog of in between, a place and time hanging on the edge of life. He hears people around him. They are quiet and respectful as if he deserves as much. He shivers and there are blankets given to him. He still hasn’t opened his eyes as he listens to their conversation.

“Keep the nasal cannula in place. I don’t care how many times he removes it. His lungs are in bad shape from the chemicals.” That voice he’s come to learn must be his doctor. “We did what we could for the shrapnel, but we need to bring in Doctor Strange to discuss the neurological damage to the arm.”

Steve shifts in the bed, trying to figure out what they’re talking about. The doctor, a woman with a soft voice, notices and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Captain Rogers are you with us?” 

Another set of hands are on him, touching his face adjusting the cannula in his nostrils again. He doesn’t want them to know he’s awake. He doesn’t want to face what’s in front of him. Life. Life without his friends, his brothers. He might as well have taken his own Glock and blown them away. A sob escapes him, but it sounds more like a moan.

“Shh, Captain, are you in pain?” That’s a male voice. He’s not sure who that might be. He hasn’t figured out the pattern of nurses yet. “Can you tell me the level of your pain. 1 being low to no pain and 10 being the worst pain you’ve ever experienced?” 

Steve forces his reluctant eyes open, he stares at the kind face and shakes his head. “Don’t deserve relief. They’re dead.” The tears prickle at the corners of his eyes again and he closes them. He wants to disappear, hide from them. He wants them to leave. Steve sees only sympathy in their eyes. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t deserve it. He grits his teeth, closes the door on the past, and only says, “No pain.” 

Steve is a terrible liar. But they don’t know that. They don’t know he’s not a hero, but a failure. They know nothing.

*oOo*

They transfer him from the local hospital unit to one in Germany, and then again to a hospital in the States. He’s silent throughout the process. Slowly he learns that Sam and Gabe survived. Only Bucky and Riley were lost to the ambush. He should be grateful for their sacrifices, they laid down their lives to protect the mission, to protect him. He doesn’t listen to the doctors when they tell him these lies. He knows what lies are, he lives one now. 

They say he’s a hero. What he really is – a failure. They pin medals on his chest and smile at him. They show him the respect any war hero would receive. He pretends he deserves it. He listens to the doctors when they talk about post-traumatic stress syndrome. He fools them all. They tell him about his remarkable progress. He listens and smiles and pretends all the time. 

In the States they ask him about his family, should they call someone. He only shakes his head in reply. He has no family. Bucky was all that he had. No one else. His father died when he was only a baby and his mother died before he enlisted. The nurses are tender with him, careful as if he’s an IED sitting in the hospital bed ready to explode on them at any time. He can fool the doctors, but the nurses know better. 

Most of them.

There’s one doctor who watches him quietly and sees through the veneer he exposes to the world. The older gentleman has a thick German accent and thinning hair. He talks about his home as if he wants to go back but there’s something preventing him. He shares stories with Steve and offers him sandwiches and soda he’s purchased on the way to the hospital. Doctor Erskine is his pulmonary specialist. He works with Steve daily to try and fix his scarred lungs.

Today there’s an apparatus on the tray table that Erskine wants him to blow into to cause the little white ball trapped in the tube to rise. Erskine does this little routine every day. Steve tries. He really does. But he gets winded quickly and the room pixelates and fades out as he blows into the tube. He hates to do it. When the doctor placed it on the tray again, Steve sank farther into the cushions of the pillows. It’s his lungs that are keeping him in the hospital. He’s like that little ball, trapped with no hope to go anywhere. 

“Oh,” Erskine says. “I see you do not want to try.”

Steve grumbles and, using his left hand, pulls the apparatus to his mouth. He tries not to think about his right hand, his dominant hand, the hand he depended on as an artist. 

“How about this?” Erskine pulls up a stool and sits on it. He points with his pen. “How about instead of this exercise, we whistle?”

“Whistle?” Steve frowns.

“Yes – whistle. You know how to whistle, yes?” Erskine looks enthusiastic like this is a breakthrough he’s been waiting for with Steve.

“Hmm, yes?” He used to whistle all the time at the ballpark with Bucky. He can still see Bucky standing up in the bleachers, they could never afford the better seats, placing his fingers in his mouth and then sharply blowing. The sound would ricochet across the park. He’s not sure he wants to whistle.

“Let us try,” Erskine says. He starts to whistle, and Steve recognizes the tune. A lullaby by Brahms. It’s a strange choice but Steve listens to it and it calms his rendered soul. “You know it, yes? Come. Try.”

Erskine gets him to whistle a few frames of the lullaby but it’s harder than trying to get that damned white ball to lift in the tube. Steve heaves in a breath and his bronchi constrict again. Erskine is there with the rescue inhaler he’s prescribed. 

“Already better.” Erskine smiles. Steve doesn’t have any idea how it is better than it was yesterday, but the doctor seems satisfied. He takes the tablet and plucks out a few notes on it. “So, you want to leave the hospital.”

Steve shrugs. He can lift his right shoulder. He can almost lift his hand, but he can’t do much with it. Nothing at all in fact. How is he going to feed himself, take care of himself? He shouldn’t complain. Some soldiers are worse off than he is – he’s seen them in the rec room. 

Some soldiers are dead.

“You could leave if you would do your physical therapy,” Erskine says and for a moment Steve thinks he’s just talking about the pulmonary exercises. But the good doctor taps on his right arm. “Doctor Strange says that you haven’t been working with the physical therapist.”

“Strange doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about,” Steve says. His voice is more vicious than it needs to be, but he doesn’t care. There’s a rush of adrenaline that hits him and he wants to bathe in it. It’s the first time he’s felt anything in 7 weeks. Anything beyond the gut-wrenching guilt. 

Erskine’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes are serious, steely, almost predatory. “You do him little justice. He saved your arm. He saved your hand.”

“What good is an arm or hand that I can’t do anything with,” Steve hisses. He doesn’t want to fight with Erskine. He likes the doctor – Erskine is kind and non-assuming. He reminds Steve of the senior that lived in the flat beneath him as a child. Old Mister Pym would always give him treats when he got home from school – on the days he actually went to school and wasn’t home sick. 

Erskine stands up. He picks up the apparatus - Expiration-resisting apparatus is what he called it – and places it into a canvas bag he retrieves from the end of the bed. “It seems as if you are not ready to leave the hospital, Steven. You want to sit and wallow. You can sit and wallow. You don’t need to have stronger lungs since you are planning on sitting here and pitying yourself. There’s no need for it.” He draws the strings of the bag closed with a snap.

“No!” Steve says and reaches out to him with his bum arm. He can’t move it much, only a short abortive thump happens. “No. I want to leave!”

Erskine stops and considers him. “Go to your physical therapy session.” He holds his hand with three fingers up. “Go three times. Once you do and I see your progress I will come back. If you do not go, if you go and do not try, I will not come back. Once you show that you are dedicated to living, I will come back.”

“I’m dedic-.” He stops. He can’t say it. Why should he live when his friends are gone? 

The doctor touches his shoulder. “And see your friend, Sam. He has asked to see you several times. See him. He needs to know you are recovering, even if you are resisting living Steven, do it for him. He needs to know to recover himself. He lost as well.”

*oOo*  
The awkwardness feels like he’s put on a stranger’s coat. It’s too tight and ill-fitting as he sits in the hospital chair and Sam stands near his hospital room door. When he first met Sam years ago on hiking trail outside of DC near the Catoctin Mountains, they became fast friends. Steve had been sitting there with his sketch book open, charcoal pencils spread out on the rock he sat on, and his water bottle perched precariously on the edge as he watched the Falls. He hadn’t gotten very far in his sketch of Cunningham Falls when Sam appeared with his Golden Retriever in tow. The Golden named Oliver pounced all around the area, nearly toppling Steve over and sending his water bottle into the great unknown of the Falls. It feels like it was forever ago and when Steve focuses on Sam’s features all he can see is the face of Riley superimposed over him. 

Riley – gone.

Bucky – gone.

Steve swallows and faces away from Sam. He needs to in order to greet his friend. Are they still friends; Steve doesn’t know. They were friends once, brothers in arms. “Sam. How are you these days?” 

“Better than you, I hear.”

“It depends on how you look at it.” Steve tries for light, but the fact is Sam’s in street clothes and Steve’s still benched and in the hospital. His pulmonary doctor is never going to release him. “I’m doing good.” He clears his throat. The discomfort presses down. Lives change, he knows that but the grip of death hangs in the air with the guilt. He was the one that led the mission, he was the one that forced them through hell. It burns. Hell burns and he should have known better. 

“You starting to be a little like Obi-wan Kenobi?” Sam walks into the hospital room, leans against the bed, arms crossed. He’s closed but he’s trying. His words and body language are in opposition. “Truth depends on your point of view, huh?”

It hurts. Truth hurts. It’s made of nails and barbed wire. It imprisons people, but it’s supposed to set them free. It shouldn’t feel like this at all. He forces himself to confront it. “I’m sorry about Riley.” His voice sounds distant and small like he is a small boy again mourning the death of a father he never met.

“Yeah.” A shadow passes over Sam’s features and the pain twists in his eyes. “We both lost.”

Steve nods and looks down into his lap, his useless right arm and hand just hang there. He lost his friend, his lost his family, he lost his livelihood. “What now?” He doesn’t mean to say it out loud. He wants to cover it up, dig a hole and bury it all. There’s no way to face the enormity of it. The best thing to do is to hide it, conceal it. It’s only going to contaminate his whole life.

“We go on. We do what we can in their memory. We don’t fail.” Sam states it like he knows how to mourn, like he’s processed it but underneath his smooth delivery Steve detects the slightest resonance of failure, of loss, of oblivion.

“Don’t go there, Sam,” Steve says. He’s not speaking to the Sam everyone sees every day, but the one he knows, the one hiding behind those angel wings he always wears for everyone. 

Sam steps away from the bed, escapes Steve’s haunted expression and goes to the window. He puts his hands on his hips and stares out into the abyss of life. “Don’t say that. There’s nowhere else to go. I have to do this. I have to go on.”

Steve struggles to his feet. His legs are strong but his lung rebel. He coughs but manages to shuffle over to Sam’s side. “How do we go on then?”

Sam stays silent for too many minutes. When Steve glances at him, he spots the fear and the complexity of life written there on his worn face. The bruises have faded but hell makes its mark, a tattoo that can never be removed. “I gotta do it for him. You know, I keep telling myself. I gotta keep putting one foot in front of the other. But how?”

“Maybe go and pet your dog?” Steve says and it’s stupid but kind.

Sam chuckles low and deep. “You know that stupid idiot nearly knocked me down the stairs when I showed up at my mom’s house? He went ballistic. Think he hadn’t seen me in years.”

“He’s a good dog,” Steve says and draws his attention away from Sam to give him space to recuperate. 

“He’s getting old. You should come and see him. He’s not going to last forever you know,” Sam says, and something eases about them. Their conversation becomes normal, typical, just a casual melody of words between friends. It hurts but it feels more comfortable, more like them, more like they used to be. “You should come to the group session,” Sam says after they’ve talked for a while and Steve is back in his chair.

“Group session? Don’t tell me you got all California and go to therapy now,” Steve says and gives him a slight derisive turn of his mouth. 

“Don’t knock ‘til you try it buster. You might like it and it might help spring you from this joint,” Sam says. “It’s in the outpatient center. I go on Thursdays. So tonight. What do you say?”

“I say that you manipulated the conversation to rope me into the meeting.” He can’t deny that sitting here talking to his friend, being open and honest and wiping away the awkwardness feels right, feels good. “But maybe. Sure.”

“Great! How about I go get some burgers and we eat before we go. Then you can get into something more presentable.” Sam jumps up and heads for the door.

“What?” Steve looks down at his hospital gown. “You don’t think this is the height of fashion.”

Sam smiles and winks. “Well, it might get you some of the ladies with a peek at that ass of yours.”

The barbs of steel in his gut soften and the tension holding him together relaxes as Sam departs to get their dinner. Steve should be panicking. The coil of stress and anxiety that’s kept him wound tight but also giving him the ability to move and to function eases. Without that crutch, how will he go on, how will he find ways to put one foot in front of the other, how will he present a person to the world that’s the slightest bit viable. He’s not even sure he is a viable, vital person anymore. Sometimes, he’s only a shadow. 

He shrugs off the maudlin thoughts and forces himself out of the chair. The closet has some clothes for him to wear. He’s not sure who brought it, maybe Bucky’s sister. She came by during his convalescence and tried to cheer him up. Steve couldn’t even look her in the face. She left after she hugged and kissed him. Her brown eyes saddened by his silence, by his guilt. Thinking about it only harms the slightly good feel seeing Sam again brought to him. Right now, Steve needs to focus on the moment. He can’t move forward if he’s mired in the past. 

He starts to plan. First, get dressed. Second, have dinner with Sam. Third, go to the group meeting. Fourth, go to physical therapy. Fifth, get the hell out of the hospital. Sixth, leave. Just get out. The Army would give him medical discharge and after that? After that Steve plans on disappearing. He doesn’t want to see the pity he saw in Bucky’s sister’s eyes ever again. 

Looking down at his useless right hand, Steve grimaces. First things first, he needs to figure out a way to get dressed. Then he’ll work on the rest. At least now he has a plan. He tries not to notice that the goal of the plan is nebulous at best.


	2. Chapter 2

“Angie, I’m leaving for work. Please, please remove this cat from the flat as soon as possible. We can’t have it in here. You know that!” Peggy says as she swings into Angie’s room in their small apartment. She smiles at Angie as she rolls out of bed. “Fred needs to go today.”

“Fred loves you.”

“Fred loves tuna,” Peggy says. “Now, I have to get moving before I’m late.” Said one eyed cat, Fred, arches his back as he gets up from snuggling close to Angie. “Out. He needs to get out. We aren’t allowed cats and you’re allergic, for pity’s sake.”

Angie totally ignores Peggy. “Going to that SHIELD Hospital today?” Angie asks as she yawns and stretches. “You get to go and see strong Army guys and I get to serve crabby old guys coffee. Joy of joys.” 

Peggy frowns but steps into Angie’s bedroom. It’s big enough to fit a twin bed and a three-drawer dresser. It’s about the same size as Peggy’s own bedroom. Apartments are expensive in Foggy Bottom. “You could try out for that play you were talking about?”

Angie waves her hand at Peggy and shakes her head. “It’s never going to happen they don’t want my type.”

Peggy grins at Angie. “Try, Angie, please.” She pecks Angie on the cheek. “I really have to go. See you later for dinner?”

“Nah. I got the morning and night shift today. Taking two to get more moola!” 

Peggy laughs. “That’s the way to do it.” 

Fred purrs and rubs up against Angie who promptly sneezes at the orange tabby feline. Peggy only rolls her eyes at her apartment mate as she snuggles up to the cat. With her purse slung across her shoulders, Peggy leaves the tiny apartment and makes her way to the Metro. It’s not a long ride on the Blue line but it’s enough time to check her appointments at SHIELD today. It’s good work and she enjoys working with the soldiers and Vets who need good therapists to get them back on their feet. It makes her feel whole again, after everything that happened to her brother, Michael.

Inwardly she cringes as the thought. So many of the soldiers she works with are missing limbs or have serious afflictions due to their service. It’s hard to see them, especially when she thinks of Michael – her older brother who had just gotten married and his wife had a child on the way when he went down. Losing a brother is part of the reason she offers her time at SHIELD. 

Out of her shoulder bag, she pulls out her date book. She may be young, but she still loves to use her book to write notes and to keep appointments. When she flips to today’s date, she notes that she has another session with Captain Steven Rogers. Frowning, she rubs at the tension in her temples. Rogers is everything a girl could want in a guy, but at the same time he’s awkward, brooding, and serious. She hasn’t seen him crack a smile once. Today, she’s going to change all that, she decides. 

Peggy stuffs the planner back in her bag and leaves the Metro at her stop. Walking to the SHIELD Complex, she shows her identification card and nods to the security before she enters the Triskelion. It’s a big place and she crosses the lobby to exit the back toward the hospital complex. The Triskelion tries to intimidate its visitors; it doesn’t work on her. She just thinks it needs more windows. 

Once she’s through the secondary security and gotten to the physical therapy floor, Peggy spots the Captain already sitting and waiting for her. She smiles at him. He looks everywhere but directly at her. “I’ll be right with you.”

“No problem. I’m early.”

She nods and goes to the staff lockers. Stowing her bag and her jacket, Peggy starts to put on her white coat and then stops. She peers out of the locker room at Rogers sitting alone with his bum arm wrapped close to his body. Tugging off the white coat, she puts it back in her locker and then shuts it away. When she approaches the Captain, he finally looks up at her.

“Shall we?” She gestures for him to follow her. Silently he rises and trails after her. She recalls from his file that he has some lung damage and it impedes him. 

“How are you feeling today, Captain?”

“Fine.”

That’s what he always says. She leads him to a chair in the middle of the workroom. There are several beds with curtains that can be pulled around them. There’s are multiple tables for patients to sit at as well as workstations and exercise bikes. While he settles into a chair at one of the worktables, Peggy pulls a tablet from the station in the middle of the room and opens it to his file. 

When she sits down opposite of him, she notes the glower on his face. Today is going to be different, she’s going to crack this egg. “So, did you have a good weekend?”

“Yeah, the hospital was great. We had orange jello instead of green.” 

Sarcastic fellow. She takes out her instrument from under the table to measure his hand strength. “Well, that sounds better than my weekend. My roommate decided to take in a one eyed cat. She’s allergic to cats and he’s a doll and all but spends all of his time making sure she’s sneezing because I think he thinks it’s funny.”

A tiny curve at the corner of his lips. “My friend has a Golden Retriever. He’s so dopey and happy all the time. Always wants to play ball. He will lie there on the floor, staring at his ball just wagging his tail for no reason at all.”

That’s more words at one time then she’s ever gotten out of him before, she calls it a win. “So, have you done your exercises?” 

And he shuts down. “I did what I could.”

“Now, Captain, is that how you would do it for a mission?”

He glares at her. “I did what I could.”

“And it wasn’t enough,” Peggy retorts and she instantly regrets it. His eyes glisten with tears and he sucks in his lips. When she first met him, she had to tap down on her urge to kiss that full mouth. He’s broad shouldered, non-assuming, and beautiful to boot, but with so many issues she doesn’t know if he’ll ever dig himself out of it. Now, she’s hit the heart of the matter so easily with her words. Her mother always said she had a devil of a tongue.

“No, it wasn’t enough.” He goes to stand, but she grabs his hand.

“Sit, please.”

He weighs her words and then something comes over his face. Resignation that he has to be there. “Fine.” He drops back down in his seat.

After a moment, Peggy says, “I read the report. It wasn’t your fault.” Getting her hands on a redacted report had been difficult but she contacted Steve’s superiors who looked on him with deference because (even if he denied it) he is a war hero.

He bows his head. “If you read the report then you know that’s not true.” 

“You did everything you could. Did you believe in your friend? Did you respect him? Then stop blaming yourself. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it. Make something of his choice, don’t let it be in vain.” She’d said too much. She knows that, but she can’t bear to see this man suffer anymore. He’s faded to gray.

He gives a little mirthless laugh. “Bucky would say the same thing.”

“Then if you’re not going to listen to me, listen to him.”

He looks up at her. “That’s kind of dirty, the way you played that.” There’s a tinge of a smile in his eyes.

“Well, I’ve been told by my parents I fight dirty. I don’t mind getting my hands in the mud.” She glances down at his hands. “Now let’s see what we can do about yours, shall we?”

For the first time over the next hour, Captain Steven Rogers puts his heart into the hand exercises. He’s sweaty and tired by the time he’s finished, and she assigns him a list of new exercises over the next two days she wants to see him accomplish before his next sessions. When she gives him the printed sheets, he thanks her.

“I’m not sure, though, that I’ll be back.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re releasing me tomorrow. I’m going to stay with my friend, but I think I might be moving back to Brooklyn. New York, that is.” He looks down at the sheets. “Don’t I have to transfer my care up there?”

“Not until you move,” Peggy says and can’t explain why the thought of him moving on with his life pangs her. 

“So I can still come here?”

“If you’re an active duty-.”

“They’re discharging me. My care is going to go through the VA.” A worried look crosses his features, but he quickly conceals it.

“No worries. SHIELD has it that you keep coming here. I’ll make a note on your file and make sure you still have access. Leave it to me,” Peggy says and touches his hand. 

He finally truly smiles. “Thanks, I appreciate that, Doctor Carter.”

“Peggy, you can call me Peggy, Captain.”

“Steve. Please.”

She nods and smiles as he exits. Watching him, Peggy whispers to herself, “Now Margaret you know there are ethical issues here.” Yet, she can’t deny how broad his shoulders are.

*oOo*

Fred slinks into the kitchen and raises his tail waiting for food. Peggy watches him and then Angie walks into their, barely big enough for two people and now there’s a cat occupying the space, kitchen and sneezes. Angie has a long flowing robe on, and her eyes are swollen.

“Seriously, Ang, you can’t keep him.”

Angie sniffles and points. “But he only has one eye.”

“He was fine on the street. Why take him in now?” Peggy asks as Fred purrs and rubs up against her. She’s sitting at their tiny bistro table with papers spread out on it. Her documents also take up half of the two feet of counter space they have. 

“It’s cold. He needs his momma,” Angie says and bends down to give the cat a full can of tuna. 

“You can’t feed him that. He’ll get fat,” Peggy says and shifts. Half of the papers on her lap slide to the floor. “Damn it.” She gathers them up and plops them on the table. 

Angie sneezes again but pulls out a quart of Ben and Jerrys. With a spoon she digs in. “So when are you introducing me to the mystery man?”

Peggy glowers. “What are you talking about?”

Angie points with her spoon. “Him. You’ve been working on him for days now. I’ve never seen you so obsessed with one patient. Plus, you never break the HIPAA rules to bring patient files home, but here you are.”

“It’s important. It’s for his well-being. He’s been discharged from the SHIELD hospital and from the service. I’m trying to get him the physical therapy he needs, but the paperwork is horrendous and I keep hitting a brick wall.” Peggy sinks lower in her chair. “It’s been a week and I promised him I’d get it done for him.”

“Call him up, do it here. Or wherever. You have some of the equipment.”

“In storage not in this hovel,” Peggy mutters.

“Pegs – that’s very unbefitting of you to mutter. And hey! This is our home. Fred doesn’t like you to ridicule it.” She licks the spoon. “I have to get ready for an audition at Kennedy.”

“I hope it has something to do with you being sick because you look terrible,” Peggy calls after her.

“I love you too, dear!” Angie says and goes to her bedroom to get ready. 

Peggy rifles through the paperwork, looking for Steve’s commanding officer but then falls upon the contact information for the Captain since he left the hospital. Peggy picks up the slip of paper and stares at the number on it. What good would it do? She doesn’t have access to all the equipment she needs, but she could talk to him. Maybe he could contact his former CO and see if he could intervene on Steve’s behalf. It’s half a plan. Well, maybe 12% of a plan. 

“It’s better than nothing, Fred.”

Fred only meows at her and toddles off after Angie.

*oOo*

The coffee shop she chose is not one of the franchises, but a small local cafe that’s run by a friendly but curt former air force pilot. Peggy often visits the café during her lunch breaks at SHIELD. When she called Steve, Peggy figured he would at least know the place. He appears at the entrance not 2 minutes after she arrived. He greets her and thanks her for inviting him. It isn’t a date – they have business to conduct. After an awkward moment, he offers to get her a coffee and a sandwich. She declines but says she’ll get a coffee on her own. He looks a little brushed off but takes it like a champ and gets a plain black coffee which is completely boring in comparison to her latte. 

They find a table near the back of the café. He slides into the booth and she follows suit, but across from him. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.” She clears her throat. It’s been nearly 2 weeks since their last session. Peggy notices he keeps his right hand on his lap. “I know I said I would get you situated with the therapy that you need.”

“But it isn’t working out,” Steve interjects. “Yeah, I know. The paperwork is terrible. Since I was discharged, they have to change my status and it might take up to a year before all the bureaucracy works itself out.”

“A year! That’s criminal!” Peggy looks around as people turn at their tables and booths to stare at her. She lowers her voice. “That is criminal. What about your physical therapy? What about your pulmonary therapy?”

“I’m seeing Doctor Erskine privately now. But that’s not going to last long. I can’t expect him to do charity work-.”

“Don’t you say that,” Peggy says. “If he’s offered, then it’s fine.”

“I need to pull my own weight.” It’s his earnestness that hits her. He’s not being maudlin just very true to his own values. She can see it in his manner, his eyes.

“Well, I’m going to offer that I help you out with your physical therapy. But I see you’ll need to earn it.” She mulls over her options. “Are you allergic to cats?”

“No. Not that I know of?” 

“Well, I have a cat that needs a home. If you can take him in, even for a short while it would really help me and my roommate.”

“Is that the cat you spoke of the last time I went to therapy?” 

Peggy nods. “Fred needs a home.”

He considers her offer. “I’m staying at a friend’s right now. The one with the Golden Retriever. Pretty sure the dog gets along with cats, but I’d have to clear it with Sam first.” 

“If you can do that for me, I can give you some therapy until you move to New York. Is that still your plan?” Peggy asks.

He shrugs. “I think? I mean that’s where I’m from, but I’m not sure. I lived there with Bucky – my friend who died on the mission – and leaving it seems to feel-.”

“Weird, that you’re leaving all the memories behind as well.” Peggy sips her coffee. She really should have gotten a sandwich. “I know what you mean. I left Britain after my brother died for school here in the States. He was much older than me, but I really looked up to him. Leaving meant that I couldn’t see the places we’d shared together. Not every day. But it still feels-.”

“Like you’re abandoning the memories, too,” Steve says with a nod. He doesn’t meet her eyes and blinks too fast as he tries to fight the painful memories of his friend. “I don’t want to do that, but I don’t have anyone left in New York. My mom and dad are gone too. I have no other family.” He sits back in the booth. “Shit, sorry for dumping this one you.”

She smiles at him tenderly, but not matronly. No one could do that to this big hulk of a man. 

“You know I used to get beat up all the time. All over Brooklyn. From the alleyways to the parking lots to the playgrounds. Bucky was always there to pick me up and dust me off.”

“Did you have something against running away?”

Steve shrugs. “You start running they’ll never let you stop.”

That hit true. “I know a little of what that’s like.” He meets her gaze then and it’s Peggy that pulls away. She can’t hold it, it’s too piercing, too bright, too honest. “I figured you wouldn’t have to worry about getting beaten up. Considering your size and all.”

He genuinely laughs. “You would if you saw a picture of me as a kid. Hold up. I might have one.” He pulls out a phone from his jacket pocket. It’s a little clumsy with one hand but he finds the photo. “Here, this is me and Bucky in middle school.”

She leans over to see the photo. It’s snapshot of two boys, one larger, brawnier and the other a stick like twig of a boy. Steve points to the skinny boy. “That’s me.”

“Oh my, I don’t believe a single word of it,” Peggy says.

“Well it’s true. That’s me. All fifty pounds of me,” Steve says and then pulls the phone back. “Bucky was a good friend.”

“He sounds like it,” Peggy says. “He’d want you to succeed, to move on.”

“Yeah.” Steve stares at the phone. “Yeah, he would.” Looking up at her, he smiles. It’s soft and mourning, but it’s still a smile. “When do we start?”

“Well, we need somewhere to go. Unfortunately, they won’t let you in without the right orders,” Peggy says indicating the big SHIELD complex across the street from the café. 

He casts a scowl at it like it’s personally offended him. “Well, my friend has a townhouse and the basement has some work out equipment. Maybe there. There’s nothing specific for hands there but arm stuff – yeah.”

“Okay, if that’s okay with you?” Peggy says way too quickly considering she’s just agreed to go to a strange man’s house. But something about Steve makes her trust him. 

“Well, I should warn you that my friend has a roommate, Brock Rumlow. He works at the Triskelion. He can be a bit of an ass.”

“Oh don’t you worry about me, I can handle myself.”

Steve smiles. “I bet you can.”

“Can you find out about Fred and then we can start, right away. I don’t want to wait too long,” Peggy says rushing with the last part of the sentence to ensure that she doesn’t sound too eager. 

“I’ll contact Sam and then call you. I can get you at the number you called me?” 

Peggy agrees. “I better move along. I have another appointment at one.” She stands and Steve gets up at well. So much the gentleman. 

“Thank you, Peggy. I really do mean it.”

She takes his limp hand. “No thanks needed at all, Steve. I’ll see you soon.”

When she leaves, she swears she feels his eyes on her.


	3. Chapter 3

“So, when’s she coming with this cat?” Sam asks as he ruffles his dog, Oliver’s, scruff. “Ollie’s not going to like this cat. You know how he feels about cats.”

“I know,” Steve says. “Do you want me to call it off?” 

Sam scoffs at him. “You really think I’ll let you off the hook because of a cat? You really don’t know me. You’re doing this. I don’t care if I have to deal with Ollie slobbering all over a half blind cat. You need to do this, Cap.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Will you just go then? You’re going to be late for your meeting.” 

Sam hesitates before he picks up his jacket from the hooks by the door of his townhouse. “You sure? I mean I can stay. I don’t have to go to the meeting tonight.”

Steve gets up from the couch in the small front room. He gives Sam a knock on the arm and says, “Go. You’re leading the support group tonight, right?”

“Yeah, I am.” Sam’s smiles. He’s proud of his achievement in such short order. “Okay, then.” He clears his throat and turns to the dog. “Try not to get too frisky with the cat, okay? Can you let him out back for a bit?”

Steve ushers him out the door and then turns to stare at Oliver. “You be a good dog and accept Fred. He’s going to be your partner in crime. When you do bad things, which you like to do like eat out of the garbage, you can always blame it on him. Let’s go outside.”

“Talking to the dog again, Rogers?” Rumlow says as he jogs down the stairs. He’s got his leather jacket on and a helmet in his right hand. “You need to get out more. Maybe think about getting laid or something.”

Steve shakes his head. He really doesn’t like Rumlow all that much. Sam rented out the extra room upstairs to the agent from the Triskelion. Rumlow works for the military, that’s all Steve knows. Right now, Steve’s sleeping on the small couch in the front room and most of his stuff – which isn’t much - is stowed in the basement.

Grabbing the dog’s collar, Steve guides Oliver through the living room into the large kitchen and out into the fenced backyard. The Golden Retriever barks joyously as he romps around the yard, wagging his tail, and searching for his tennis ball. “I don’t have time to play with you right now,” Steve calls and steps back into the kitchen.

Rumlow grunts at him as he drinks right out of the milk carton – there goes cereal in the morning. He slurps it and then places the carton back in the fridge. “You really need to get out.”

“You’re replacing that milk,” Steve says.

“Yeah, whatever.”

The doorbell rings right at that moment. Steve cringes. He really wanted Rumlow out of the house by the time Peggy appeared. Rumlow isn’t the nicest guy around at all. Sam isn’t great friends with him at all, but Rumlow pays the rent and stays out of his hair, so Sam hasn’t kick him out, yet. 

Steve ignores Rumlow and goes to answer the door. Peggy’s standing on the stoop with a cat carrier and her shoulder bag. She’s dressed impeccably in crisp blue jeans, a sharp tucked in white blouse with a suit jacket. Her lips are blush red and her hair is done up in a messy bun. Steve almost can’t force the words out – but Rumlow’s there to chime in.

“Well, look at that. Stevie’s got himself a girlfriend.”

“I’m not-.” Peggy starts but Steve finishes, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Rumlow snickers. “Sure, she isn’t.” He winks at Peggy. “When you’re done playing with the boys, come over to see the man of the house.” He pushes past her and skips down the few steps to the sidewalk. 

Peggy watches him for a moment and Steve prays with all his might that he sinks into a void. When she turns back to him, Peggy says, “Who was that disturbingly disgusting man?”

“Sam’s roommate, Brock Rumlow. He’s mainly harmless.”

She looks at him doubtfully. “You don’t truly believe that, do you?” 

He doesn’t say anything just reaches over with his left hand and takes the carrier from her. “Why don’t you come in and we’ll see if Oliver and Fred can get along.”

She enters and thanks him. She doesn’t take off her suit jacket but then he didn’t expect her to, since it looks like it’s part of her ensemble. He shows her through the vestibule into the front room. Sam’s decorating sense is functional with clean lines but not sterile. Both wood and metal offset one another and make a modern layout more inviting. Glancing around the front room which serves as the main living room, Peggy says, “Nice. Does your friend own it?”

“Yeah, while he was deployed he rented the whole place out. Now, he just rents out to Rumlow. He’s giving me a break on rent until I get back on my feet.” Steve cringes inwardly, she doesn’t need to know he’s a hard luck case. He’s not vying for hand outs.

“Sam seems like a good sort,” Peggy says. Steve realizes she must have met Sam in the hospital. Before he can comment she gestures to the cat carrier. “Should we introduce them?”

Steve agrees. At least they aren’t dwelling on Rumlow and his incredibly out of date sexism. “I just put Ollie outside. Give me a minute to get him in.” He points to the carrier. “Do you want to let him out? I have a litter box in the basement. Do you think we should show him?”

“Why don’t I bring him downstairs and show him around while you get the dog?” Peggy suggests.

“Oliver. His name is Oliver, but everyone calls him Ollie.” Steve starts to go get the dog, but then stops. “First, maybe I should show you the basement?”

Peggy smiles and nods. She picks up the carrier crate even though Steve bends down and tries to take it from her. “I can manage.”

He bites away his disappointment. Of course, she doesn’t think he can do it. He’s a cripple. He winces and waves her to follow him into the kitchen to the door to the basement. Opening the door, he indicates for her to go first. She maneuvers the crate in front of her and then cautiously steps down on the stairs.

“Are you sure you don’t want me-?”

She stops, eyes him, and then says, “On second thought, if you could I would appreciate it.” Peggy backs up into the kitchen and he takes the crate from her. She heads down to the basement level and he brings the cat in the crate, who makes little mewing noises.

The basement level of Sam’s townhome is finished with a sitting room at the bottom of the stairs. Steve leads Peggy passed the sectional couch facing the large screen television on the back wall to the workout room. A stream of daylight from the high narrow rectangular windows brightens the room.

“Sam is still active duty, technically. He’ll be getting out in a few months. His mother and father usually maintain the place for him while he’s away.” When he enters the workout room, he places the crate on the floor. “The litter box is actually in the furnace room.”

“Oh, that won’t do at all. Fred needs to have access to it at all times.” Peggy follows Steve into the room. 

He pushes the door open. “I’ll make sure that the door stays open until we find a better solution. Is that good?”

“Okay then.” Peggy claps her hands. “Let’s get to it. I’ll let Fred out and you go get Oliver.”

“Yes, yes. Of course,” Steve agrees. He stalls for a second wondering if he should offer to help her out, but then she gestures for him to leave and he nods and does. As he climbs the stairs he drags his weak along the wall. He often calls his right hand the flipper because he can’t possibly use it for anything at all. His heart sinks. Why is Steve allowing Peggy to be here at all; she’s wasting her time. He clears his head, chiding himself in an inner voice that sounds too much like his mother.

When he gets to the back door, Steve stares out into the backyard where the Golden Retriever is happily sniffing around the fence line. He must be looking for the little yappy dog that lives next door. They often bark and play through the fence. Steve looks over his shoulder at the door to the basement and then back to the dog, who is always so happy, so giddy with life. 

_Now, Steven, what’s wrong today?_ His mother used to scold him sometimes. He’d fall into moods when he was sick, and he had to watch the other children playing outside while he could only sit with his coloring books on his lap and gaze at them through the window.

Even now he wants to answer her. He would say, _Mom, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to go forward._

She would sit on the edge of his bed and pat his shoulders. _You know how this works, Steven. You know. Already._

He would smile at her, because she always reached him with words that would show him he had strength; he had a future. _Always stand up, Mama. Always stand up._

“But what if I’m standing and I can’t go any further?” he whispers. He’s standing stock still and the world is moving around him in a great blur, a great rush of sound and sights. Only a blur of colors blending and bleeding together surround him.

“Steve?”

He jolts in surprise to find Peggy standing in the kitchen near the staircase to the basement. “Is there something wrong? Can I help?”

He manages a smile and shakes his head. “No. Sorry. I was just watching Ollie roam around the backyard. He’s always so happy.”

She steps up the window and watches with him. “He’s a beautiful dog.”

“Yes. He is.” He clears his throat. He needs to clear away the cobwebs of his own failures. Get his head back in the game. “Let me get him in.” 

Opening the door, Steve calls for Oliver who jogs up the steps to the deck and into the house. As soon as he sees Peggy, the Golden Retriever acts like he’s never been loved in his whole life. He starts to whine and twist his body around and half jump. Steve chastises him so he doesn’t fully jump up and lay all his weight on Peggy. She bends down and greets him, ruffling his fur.

“He’s a lovely dog.”

“I swear when we were over there Sam would send love letters to Ollie.” He laughs. “Well, not love letters, but letters his mom had to read to the dog. I think he even facetimed with the dog a few times.”

Peggy beams and laughs. “Oh, how very sweet.” She leans down and plants a kiss on the top of the dog’s head. “Are you a sweetie pie?”

There’s a tiny meow behind them and Peggy bolts up straight and turns around. Greeting them is Fred at the top of the stairs to the basement. He’s an orange tabby cat with his one eye missing and a scrunched up face as if he’s smelled something bad which he probably did. Evidence number one – the dog. 

Ollie stops his fawning over Peggy and jumps over to Fred – who immediately backs up and arches his back. The Golden hesitates then, his tail still up and flicking the air. He waits. Peggy glances at Steve. In a low voice she whispers, “I kind of mucked this up, didn’t i?”

He shakes his head and places a finger at his lips. With a little lift of his chin Steve indicates for her to watch. Slowly Ollie approaches Fred, who backs up again but doesn’t arch his back. Ollie sniffs and swishes his tail and then drops down. He’s laying out on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor, panting and watching Fred. The cat meows and slinks along the wall, keeping his one eye on the dog at all times. Ollie seems content to watch the cat.

“Well, that’s not too bad,” Peggy says. “Of course, as soon as we take our eyes off of them all hell will break loose.”

“Well that’s how it is with all kids, right?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but he doesn’t pull it off well. Luckily Peggy gives him a sidelong glance and shakes her head.

“That wasn’t very subtle.”

“Probably not,” Steve says. “My mother always said I’m like a bull in a China store.”

She giggles and it’s charming and so girlish she actually blushes as well. “Shall we get on with it then?”

That throws him for a moment and he says, “Excuse me?”

“The therapy?” Then she realizes how it sounded and slaps a hand over her mouth. “Seems I’m intent on mucking all things up today.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Steve rushes to the move them along before they both get foot in mouth disease. “Back to the work out room?”

“Great, yes.” Peggy follows him as they navigate around the dog and cat who are still in a quiet détente.

Once downstairs, they settle not in the workout room but in the lounge where Sam often watches the games on his big screen television hung on the wall. They sit at the card table set up near the corner of the room. Peggy puts her bag on the floor and then pulls out a clipboard and some notes. 

While she sorts through her documents, she asks, “Have you been doing the exercises?”

Steve could lie but it doesn’t see the point. “Not religiously.”

“Not religious or never I just don’t want to admit it?”

“The latter,” Steve says and bows his head. He stares at his useless hand. 

“There’s a lot of nerve damage, you can’t expect your body to repair everything unless you strengthen the muscles and help it along.” She pulls out an instrument that Steve recognizes to measure the strength of his grip. “So, I can assume there’s no change?”

“Probably.” The schoolmarm look does nothing for her beauty, but it does cow him. “I’m sorry, I just don’t see the point.” Steve feels the irritated scowl of his mother’s spirit. She’d be ashamed of his lack of will power and faith. 

“You must see the point, otherwise I wouldn’t be here,” Peggy says and starts working to monitor his hand’s uselessness. “Take your hand and grip mine.”

He wants to deny her, but he follows direction. She’s a force to be reckoned with. Absently he wonders if she’s related to Elizabeth II, or even I. Steve barely grasps her hand before he feels sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Now where do you feel the most restraint.” Peggy studies the grip like it’s a puzzle.

“Mainly in my wrist but also up into my elbow,” Steve reports. “The doctor said they removed part of my muscle tissue to remove the infection.”

“Yes, I see that,” Peggy says as she examines his arm. She glides her fingers up his arm. “Do you mind, could you roll up your sleeve?”

Steve screws up his face but nods. “Okay.” He doesn’t like looking at his right arm. It’s mish mash of scars and pits. Part of his muscle is missing, and it looks like someone decided to dig a hole. Efficiently, he rolls up his sleeve to reveal the worst of it.

Her eyes never show anything but calm professionalism. “Do you have numbness?”

Steve appreciates that she’s trying to put him at ease. She has all of this information, but he plays along, probably a little too accepting of her charade because he is agitated, and it does help to just talk about it with a distracted professionalism. Like he’s not even talking about himself. “Mostly near the missing muscle. But some near the hand. Right around the thumb pad, makes it difficult to hold things and to manage precision movements.”

“That’s good information, Steve.” She jots a note down on her pad. “Are you okay with me taking notes? I know this isn’t formal.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like it’s a secret that I can’t use my right hand.” He shrugs and tries to play it off like it’s not a big deal to not have use of his dominant hand. 

“Well, let’s change that, shall we?” 

Over the next hour, Peggy puts him through his paces with different arm and hand exercises. The thing that impresses him the most is that she never lets go of his hand. She’s always touching him, as if her steady presence will serve enough to change his perceptions of how he views his useless hand and arm. The option of seeing an occupational therapist to learn how to use his left hand remains a viable option, but that means he has to give in. it means that it’s another thing that has changed in his life. It recalls to mind what his mother once said _Traumatic events change a person, Steven. Even if you get back to some normality in life you’re never the same – not really_. He wondered then if she had been speaking of losing his dad at such a young age. Now he understands a little of the more subtle layers in those words.

Steve notices Peggy’s watching him as the words swim through his head. The considerations of giving up on his right hand. He is a different person, a person who needs to rebuild himself.

She breaks the silence between them. “Is New York still on your radar?” Peggy asks as she finishes some final tests. 

“I think. I don’t have a lot holding me here. I do have friends, don’t get me wrong. But I grew up in Brooklyn. It feels like I’m in a foreign country here.” He realizes how it sounds a little too late. “Sorry, that must sound awfully naïve to your ears.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “You’d be surprised. I spent quite a few years here. Now when I go home it feels foreign. I almost feel like I don’t have a place, like I’m without a home.”

“I get what you mean. My family’s all gone. Bucky was all that I had.” He swallows back any more words. Not only will his emotions overcome him if he doesn’t, but the truth isn’t something he’s ready to share. Yet, when he looks at her with her imploring eyes Steve can’t help himself – the words blossom out of him as if to plant seeds between them. He wonders if he should tread more carefully. After all, she has her own life and loves.

“You have a lot to live for, Steve.” Peggy’s voice is a whisper as if she knows her words are not sufficient.

He waves her off as she tests his pulse points. “I’m not talking about that. I just don’t have an anchor here or in New York. Maybe I’ll just travel – if I could manage a motorcycle, I’d take a cross country tour or something.” It’s easier to deny the spark of a connection then to hunt it down and strengthen it.

“What about your art?”

“Can exactly do art when my hand doesn’t work.” Steve tries to shrug it off, but that’s impossible. “I’ll find something else.”

“What was your medium?” 

Though he doubts it, she sounds genuinely interested. “Mainly oils. Some charcoal and pencil.”

“Have you thought about expanding that? Maybe something different? Maybe a different technique?” She places his hand on the table, patting it and then goes to make another note on her pad. “Don’t lose something you love.”

“It sounds like you’re talking from experience.” He wants to gulp back his words, he shouldn’t be so forward.

She peers up at him as she taps on the pad; there’s a twinkle in her eyes and a tiniest curve of a smile on her lips. “Now, Captain, that’s getting a little familiar, don’t you think?” 

He cringes inside. “Oh, I’m sorry – I-.” 

She laughs and smiles fully at him. “You don’t know how to talk to women, do you?”

The embarrassment drains out of him because she puts him at ease. “I don’t know. Maybe it was because I was a runt of a kid and girls – a chicks – a ladies never quite saw me as much of anything. Plus, I was always getting beat up.”

“Beat up?” She tilts her head and her gaze sends a little burst of light in his chest.

Steve drops his gaze from her and looks at his hand. “Yeah. Always. I always had a social cause to support, to defend.”

“But you were- what did you call it? A runt?” At first he thought she was just being kind, polite, seeking more information, but the genuine look of interest on her face and her rapt attention did something positively terrible to Steve’s insides. He thinks his lungs clench. 

He forces his voice not to wobble as he speaks. “Yeah, I was a runt and I was picking fights all the time. My mother didn’t know what to do with me. Either I had a bloody nose because Hogan beat me up or I was coughing up a lung because I had the latest and greatest flu virus.”

“She had her hands full.” Her voice is soft and kind and Steve can’t help but look up at her and meet her eyes. So full and so beautifully deep. 

He coughs and stands up. He breaks the spell. “Sorry, I think I heard Ollie.” Quick recovery, but obvious and Steve feels the heat of his lame excuse warm his cheeks. “Better make sure he isn’t trying to turn Fred into one of his chew toys.

Mercifully, Peggy takes it at face value. “Oh no. Then we should probably check on them. I’ll clean up and join you in a moment.”

Steve waits for a second, too long, but then nods and goes up the stairs. Of course, the traitor Oliver sleeps on the couch, curled up and not concerned at all with the cat sitting on the back of the couch, cleaning his paws and surely at home. As he studies the two, Peggy steps up to stand beside him. “It looks like they found a way to be happy together.”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers and he’s not sure what he’s answering. He side eyes Peggy and finds that she’s gazing up at him with an inscrutable look on her face. At that moment, he really wishes he understood women better. 

“I’m happy,” Peggy says, and it isn’t immediately apparent to him what she means, but then she continues, “Happy that Fred might have found a home.”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” His words bleed away the hope in his chest that shouldn’t be there in the first place. She smiles at him, though, and it keeps a flicker there, deep inside him.

“I best be off. Should we schedule again?”

“I think so,” Steve says. It’s easier when he’s talking about his treatment. At least then he doesn’t have to think about her eyes, her lips, her kindness. “What about Friday?” Why he blurts out that day he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s because Sam keeps bothering him to go out and if he has the excuse to say that he did physical therapy that day and hurts, he’ll have an excuse. Maybe.

“Friday is good.” Peggy has her phone in her hand, checking the dates. “I can come over after work, if that’s okay?” 

“Sure.”

Peggy touches his hand lightly. “Then I’ll see you about 6 pm. Remember to do your exercises. It won’t mean a thing – all our time spent – if you don’t do the exercises.”

“I’ll do them,” he promises and knows he means it for the first time. 

She beams and then goes over to the cat who has been watching them with his one eye. “You be a good kitty, Fred. Don’t be too hard on Ollie.” The Golden Retriever perks up at his name and thumps his tail on the couch. “You too, Ollie. Be good and listen to Fred. He’s the King of the house now.” She glances at Steve. “Well, he is a cat.” She winks at him and then straightens. “Off I go. Have a good week, Steve.” 

“You too,” he says and she’s out the door. He stands there, watching the door swing shut and he starts the countdown until Friday. He’s hopeless and he knows it.


	4. Chapter 4

She shouldn’t be so light on her feet just because it’s very nearly 5 pm on Friday. Peggy tells herself it’s only because the week has been difficult and long. Her routine 6 pm appointment with Steve has been a nice reward for the hard week. She’s had several patients with complications that made the physical therapy plans tough to implement. Her heart goes out to each and every patient and sometimes she thinks it’s probably a bad thing that she went into the medical field. Her heart isn’t stone and each time she works with a patient, trying to support them and get them to try, drains her. Yet, the idea of seeing Steve again lightens her step and her mood.

As she finishes her work notes for the day and heads to her locker, her phones rings. She tugs it out of her lab coat that she wears, and a relief comes over her that its only Angie. She’s not going to admit to anyone, especially herself that she half worried that it would be Steve canceling on her. “Hello.”

“Hey, I wanted to know if you want to go to the Stark film. It’s something about superheroes or something. I don’t know. But everyone’s seeing it. It’s called 3000.”

“3000? I’ve never heard of it. Ang, you know I’m not a big fan of Howard Stark’s films. He’s such an ass.” 

“You say the same thing about Nolan. Come on, I heard it’s fun and his son’s in it. I swoon when I think about him,” Angie says.

“Sorry, have to work,” Peggy says. She struggles out of her lab coat as she balances the phone, trying not to smash it again on the tiles. She can’t afford to replace it again. 

“This new thing with you working on Friday nights is really putting a dent in my social life, English. Come on, you’re European. Europeans believe in leisure time.” 

“I’m British. It’s not the same.” She’s letting Angie down again, she promised last week she would plan on a girl’s night out. “What about Saturday? We could go see it then?”

Angie makes a little huffing noise into the phone. “You took my cat away.”

“And saved your life.” She opens her locker and hooks the coat on the hanger and yanks out her over stuffed messenger bag. She managed to get all the materials and tools she needs for her appointment with Steve earlier today. 

“I want to go to the movies,” Angie says. “Come on. You owe me.”

Peggy stops what she’s going and places the bag on the bench near the locker. “I’m sorry Angie. I really do have to work. It’s a private session.” She’s torn, Angie always manages to shred her. “I’m promise tomorrow.”

“Private? Who does private physical therapy-.” She stops and makes a little gasping noise. “You’re not turning tricks on the side, are you?” 

Peggy scoffs. “Angie, who are you? Have you been replaced by a pod? You know me.” She changes her shoes as she talks, not admitting to herself that putting on heels means anything at all.

“Yes. You’re a prude and need to get out more, but now you are getting out more and not telling me anything about it.” Peggy can nearly hear the pout.

“I’m working. That’s all. That’s the entire story.” Peggy needs to get off the phone if she has any hope of getting to Steve’s place on time.

She can practically hear Angie’s eyes roll. “Well, you are required to dish when you come home.”

“Sure, I’ll tell you about all the moaning and sweating.” She plays right into Angie’s hands, because why not?

“See? I knew you loved me.” Angie giggles into the phone. “Talk to you later. And we’re going to the movie tomorrow night. Don’t blow me off again.”

“Never. Later.” She closes the line and then locks up. She has a good 45 minutes to get to Steve’s place. She shouldn’t be late if she splurges for a taxi once she gets off the Metro. Of course, it means she has no time to grab anything to eat. The appointment should only take an hour; she can wait until 7 pm. After all, like Angie said, she is European. She’s been in the States too long if needing to eat before 8 or 9 at night is routine. She tries not to think about the fact she didn’t even have time for lunch today. She heaves the bag on her shoulders and regrets the need to put on her feisty pumps. She loves these shoes, but she has to be honest, they are not walking shoes! 

By the time the Metro arrives she’s already running 15 minutes late according to her calculations. She needs to send a message, a quick text.

_Running late. Be there before 6:30 pm_

Without pause the reply comes back. _No rush. Have nowhere to go._

She rolls her eyes; the poor man cannot figure out how to talk to women at all. She crumbles a little inside – why is she thinking about it as a date rather than an appointment. Steve’s response was completely acceptable. It is difficult to think of him as a patient, maybe due to the fact that they have an arrangement outside of the normal setting. Peggy isn’t lying to herself. At all. 

By the time she arrives at the house, she’s more than a little late. It’s 6:33 pm and she inwardly curses. Going up the stairs, Peggy knocks and wants to apologize immediately but Steve doesn’t answer the door. 

“You must be Ms. Carter.”

She smiles. “And you must be Mister Wilson.”

“Call me Sam.” He moves aside and invites her into the house. 

“I’m Peggy and I’m glad to meet you.” She shakes his hand as he closes the door. 

“Good to meet you. I’m about to go out if I can get my dog to tear his lovey dovey eyes off his pal, Fred.” Sam enters the main living area and she trails after him. Ollie sits on the floor staring at Fred who is currently tucked up in a ball sleeping on the couch. His tail lightly swishes back and forth. “Fred put a spell on him, I think. He used to love going on walks, now he’s afraid to leave because he thinks Fred might disappear.”

“I’m glad they’re getting along,” Peggy says and puts the heavy messenger bag on the floor near the corner.

“Getting along is one thing, what’s happening here is a break in the natural order of the world. Cats and dogs living together!” He jokes and Peggy smiles. She can see why Steve’s friends with Sam. He’s easy and open. “Well, let me get him out of your hair. Steve’s in the kitchen.” He grasps Ollie by the collar and tugs him away from his sentinel duty next to Fred. With a click he has the leash on the dog and then he waves goodbye as he leaves the house. 

Peggy heads to the kitchen. The warm smell of cooking floats through the air. Steve’s standing at the stovetop, stirring a pot and smiles at her. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.” Her stomach growls, betraying her.

Luckily he ignores it like a gentleman. “You didn’t interrupt anything. In fact, I have enough for two as long as you don’t mind pasta?”

“You don’t have to-.”

He shakes his head. “You’re coming here, taking time out of your day, and you won’t even let me pay you. It’s the least I can do. Let me give you dinner.” 

“If you insist,” Peggy returns.

“I do.”

She clasps her hands. “Well then, let me give you a hand.”

“Exactly what I need. Can you drain the pasta and drizzle it with olive oil. The oil’s in the cupboard to the left.”

She gets to it right away. Steve manages in the kitchen fairly well, though he tends to use his right hand as a club. She doesn’t say anything and works quietly next to him. There’s a domestic air about it which is comforting and nothing that Peggy ever wanted. 

Earlier in her life she spent so much time railing against lingering stereotypes. Sure, the world changed, and women have many more opportunities than decades ago. Peggy’s own opportunities far exceeded her mother’s but the fact still persists that she encounters misogynistic issues all the time. In response, her tendency has always been to oppose any idea of the domestic life. It just isn’t what she wanted. 

“Did you ever wonder if what you thought you wanted, might be somehow a little warped by society?” Maybe she shouldn’t have said it out loud.

Steve does stop as he sprinkles cheese into the frying pan simmering with zucchini, peppers, onions. “When I was a kid everyone told me to stop hoping I could ever follow in my father’s footsteps. That I was too sickly and too small to ever succeed in the Army. Is that what you mean?”

She shrugs. “Maybe a little. I just have always been so focused on my career. It’s always been about being the best I could be. I want to one day direct a department or more at SHIELD. SHIELD needs to take better care of the soldiers and agents that defend this country. So, I’ve been zeroing in on that for years now.”

“And now?”

“I still want that, in a way. But -.” She can’t find the words to explain her dilemma. Shaking her head, Peggy says, “I suppose people need a good balance in their lives. There has to be more than just work.”

He smiles as he glances her way. “Maybe. I used to hope for that, but then the mission and all I can think about now is that I can’t work, I don’t even know what I want to do with my life.”

“I don’t think you should give up just yet, Steve.” Her words are soft and light, but he gazes at her like her words are a revelation. 

“I’m not. I just don’t know what’s next.” He turns off the burner.

“Maybe that’s the exciting part,” Peggy comments as he moves to retrieve the pasta bowls from the cupboard. 

“Exciting and frightening.” He puts the bowls on the counter and gathers up some utensils and napkins. “What would you like to drink?”

“Water is fine.”

Steve works efficiently in the kitchen though he doesn’t utilize his right hand. He accommodates well. He sets the table as Peggy pours the water from the filtered water pitcher that she finds in the refrigerator. Once she puts the glasses on the table, she quietly chides herself. She shouldn’t be socializing with a patient. 

“Ready?” Steve asks as he places a bowl with pasta, sautéed vegetables, and a garlic Parmesan sauce at each of their place settings. “I hope you like it. I didn’t get to the grocery store to pick up some chicken.”

“It’s more than fine, Steve.” He gestures for her to take a seat and they both settle in for dinner. Peggy lifts her glass of water and says, “Cheers.”

Steve beams in a bashful, completely adorable way and joins her in the toast. “Cheers.”

Peggy hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she starts to eat. The food is delicious, not overly seasoned but a perfect combination. “Very good. Where’d you learn to cook?”

He raises a shoulder – his left. “Well, Ma was sick a lot when I was a teen and I had to figure things out. The lady across the hall from us was a great cook and she helped teach me so I could help my mom out.”

“Well, she did a most excellent job.” She stabs a pepper. “I don’t have much time to cook. Not most nights.”

“Don’t tell me you eat a lot of take out. You don’t seem the sort.” 

“Not at all. I eat a lot of canned soup and crackers,” Peggy laughs as she talks. “My roommate sometimes cooks but she’s worse than I am.”

“Well, I’m happy that I could give you a home cooked meal that’s not terrible,” Steve says. He’s eating with his left hand and keeping his right on his lap.

“Tell me you at least tried the exercises,” Peggy says after an interlude of eating.

Steve looks up from his nearly empty bowl. “You have my word. I did. I actually did some today, but I’m having some issues with cramping.”

She furrows her brows as she listens. “Where are the cramps? If you’re doing the exercises right, it shouldn’t cause cramping.”

He frowns. “I think I’m doing them right, but maybe you could show me again and we can figure it out.” Before she can wipe her hands, Steve stops her. “Perhaps we can finish off our dinner first.”

She relaxes. She’s here for the right thing; it’s a working dinner. The dinner itself is compensation. All together, it’s logical. But she knows it’s not true at all. Something about his earnest eyes and his sweet shyness around him alights in her heart and make her want to swoon like a 1940s starlet. 

Once dinner finishes, Steve tells her to leave the dishes. They egress to the basement. They go over the exercises first. He seems to be doing the exercises correctly but his arm trembles with each strain. 

“Can you roll up your sleeves?” Peggy asks. He follows directly and she watches as red blushes over his cheeks. The scarring is significant, but the curvature of his muscles is still impressive. “I want you to squeeze the ball as I palpate your arm and muscles, okay?”

Steve nods while biting his lower lip. He starts the contractions. Sweat mars his brow and then he flexes his hand and his muscles in his lower arm shudder against the strain. His hand claws up and he grunts against the pain, looking away from her.

“Release,” Peggy says. “Release, Steve.” Her one hand massages his arm and she grips his fingers to help him relax. “Your feeling’s coming back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says through gritted teeth. “It’s a bitch.” 

“Language, Captain.”

He smiles. “Sorry. I feel bolts of lightning in my arm. It’s spreads down to my fingers.”

“Let’s figure this out. I want to find out if you have a bundled nerve or compressed one.”

Throughout her tests of his arm, hand, and pain, Steve stays as stoic as possible, though a few grunts of pain escape. His muscles tremor under her hands as he does the exercises she asks. The motion clearly tells her that he has some compression, but it can probably be addressed through physical therapy. As she works, Peggy explains everything. Steve is a studious pupil and listens with sharp attention.

“It seems the ulnar nerve may be entrapped.”

“Ulnar?”

She nods. “Yes. It’s the nerve that runs along your ulna bone.” She touches his elbow and runs her finger down the length of his arm to his wrist. “It runs directly to your little finger and your ring finger. When you hit your ‘funny bone’ – that’s what you’re hitting. That nerve.”

“So, it’s entrapped? Do I need another operation?” He grimaces.

She glimpses the resentment – not of her, but of the idea of more surgery cross his features. “Unfortunately, most surgeries are not very successful when trying to address the entrapment.”

“I have to deal with the feeling of my funny bone being in pain all the time?” Steve sinks back in his seat. Dejected, sliced open again. She’s seen this type of response before in her work with veterans and active duty soldiers. Most see it as yet another impediment that’s placed in their pathway to getting back to what they call _normal_. 

“Lucky for you, no. Think of the canal that runs through your elbow like a circle.” She holds up her index finger and her thumb forming a circle. “If you have entrapment, what happens is that canal is flattened like an oval.” She changes the shape. “It presses on the nerve.” 

“I can change that?” The hopeful look blossoms warmth through her that she cannot deny.

She nods. “To a degree. Let me show you the silly cubical tunnel syndrome exercises.” She helps him go through the exercises. Forming circles with his fingers, helping him hold the form and then flipping it up to his eye. She also has him stretch out his arm and flatten his hand. “I want you to wrap your arm in a towel at night so that you can’t bend it during sleep. This will help the channel open up a little.”

After an hour more Steve’s failing in his exercises, though he tries to push himself to do more. She pats his hand and tells him it’s time to rest. “I can do more.”

“I’m sure you can do this all day,” she says and winks at him. “But I don’t want you to be so tired and in pain tomorrow that you don’t do your exercises. Part of therapy is knowing when to stop and rest.” She writes a short note on her tablet and then turns it off. “We’re making progress, Steve. You should be happy.”

He nods. “I’m indebted to you, Peggy. You don’t have to do this in your free time.”

“No. I don’t. But I like to.” Admitting to liking being here with him Peggy tells herself is not the same as saying she likes him. It’s fulfilling to be able to help a wounded veteran back onto his feet. It has nothing to do with his earnestness or his long lashes and blue, blue eyes.

“Well, thank you.” He notices the time. “It’s nearly ten! How far do you have to travel back home?”

She waves him off. “I’ll call an Uber. Don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have a car, or I would drive you.” Steve stands as she does. 

“No worries Steve. I’m a big girl now.” She packs up everything and adjusts the bag so it’s not crammed but comfortable to hold.

His face reddens. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just-.”

She grips his hand. “I know. I’m teasing you.” He shuffles his feet and she finds it endearing. “I’m just going to use the bathroom and call a driver.”

Steve lets her go and she heads toward the powder room. She cleans up and then uses her phone to engage a driver. Before she leaves the bathroom, Peggy glares at herself in the mirror. It’s a silent reprimand not to be attracted to her patient. With that, she exits and meets Steve at the top of the stairs. He’s cleaning the kitchen with Ollie at his feet. Fred is nowhere to be found. In the intensity of the session, Peggy completely forgot about Steve’s roommates.

“The car should be here soon.”

“Do you want some tea before you go?” Steve asks as he dumps some of the plates into the foaming water in the sink. Ollie looks up at her and wags his tail. He’s not going away though; he’s stuck to Steve’s side. Peggy tilts her head at the dog’s attachment to Steve. He picks up on it. “Ollie’s getting more and more attached to me. I don’t get it either. Sam says it’s because I give him too many treats.”

She spies Steve’s jeans’ pocket. “Or you carry around treats all the time when the dog’s here.” She points to the bone shaped lumps in his pocket.

He laughs. “Maybe.” He picks up the kettle. “Tea?”

“Oh no. Thank you. My Uber should be here momentarily.” She shows him her phone. He accepts her rejection and moves back to the sink to continue cleaning the last of their dinner. “May I help?”

“Do you want to dry?” He rinses a plate and puts it in the drying rack. 

Stepping up to the sink, she takes the towel and begins her task. “You manage quite well. I mean with your hand.”

“Well, you have to deal with what life gives you, my Ma always said that.” He places a clean dish in the empty sink next to the tub and continues cleaning. 

“Have you given any thought to your future? What’s next?” Peggy asks. It’s comfortable to stand next to him. He has the height and the breadth of shoulders that commands a certain respect but at the same time security and warmth. 

He bobs his head a little. “Maybe. Bucky’s family invited me to come up and visit. I haven’t been to his final resting place. So I’d like to go.”

“To New York?” It hurts to hear it and she shouldn’t think it. Inwardly she chides herself. He’s a patient not a prospect. He’s mentioned New York several times in the past, even saying it is his home and DC feels distant to him.

“Yes. Just for a few days. I’ll do my exercises, don’t worry.” Steve smiles at her and it’s her turn to blush. 

A car horn sounds and she clears her throat, breaking his gaze. Her face burns bright. She was sharing a gaze, a moment with him. Too intimate, too close. “I better go.” She folds the towel, quickly retrieves her bag, and stops only to say goodbye.

“Next week then,” she adds.

“Next week. I think you said Tuesday?” 

She agrees and gets out of the house as soon as possible. She stands on the stoop, inhaling and exhaling while ignoring the car waiting for her. Nothing happened at all. Why is she trembling? Why is her heart looping in her chest? Why can’t she just keep her head on her shoulders. She’s always so professional. Why is this man any different?

It is different. Over the course of the next weeks, she refocuses her attention again and again. Steve moves her, beyond the norm. She’s always found that patients touch her heart and change her perceptions of the world, but Steve – Steve hangs on her heart so much longer that she sometimes dreads interacting with him. On several occasions she nearly cancels, but then she talks herself into being responsible. After all, it might take months before the VA ever gets him scheduled for basic physical therapy. Though, she admits that she’s never taken on a patient privately in the past. It’s something she needs to grapple with, but she doesn’t – not when they finish up another session and it’s warm autumn day. They actually worked outside on the deck; the leaves of the trees are in their full glory – a riot of colors. 

Steve massages his hand as they finish up.

“Any progress on the pain after the therapy?” Peggy asks. She places her tablet in the messenger bag.

“A little. It’s not as intense, but I still get it.”

“Well, that’s better. Right?” She so desperately wants him to find some hope in the situation. “Have you had any luck with finding a job?”

“Not much,” Steve says. “I’m helping out at the grocer down the block. But I can’t lift like I used to, so they have me doing some cashier work when their regular cashier can’t get in. It’s sporadic at best.”

Not artistic at all. She frowns. “My roommate Angie does theater on the side. Perhaps they might-.”

He puts his hand. “I’ve accepted enough already that I can’t pay for.”

Peggy glowers at him. “Steve, you really are totally unaware, aren’t you? Why not accept some of the help and then pay it forward once you get back on your feet?”

“It’s a nice sentiment, I’ll admit that.” Before he’s able to say anything more, Ollie is at the sliding door in the kitchen, whining. Steve looks at his phone. “Oh, it’s time for his afternoon walk. I promised Sam I’d take him.”

“Oh,” Peggy says. She should just excuse herself, but something – some beast inside her betrays her – takes over. “Would you mind if I came along? I could use a nice walk on such a lovely day.” She packs up her bag and ignores her inner voice warning her against getting too close and mixing business with pleasure.

“Oh. I mean – sure. That would be great. Let me get his leash.”

Ollie walks well on the leash and Steve handles him without any issues, even considering his injury. Peggy slung on her messenger bag so that once the walk is over, she can call an Uber and make an exit. The stroll down the street to the park two blocks over is leisurely and comfortable. 

“I want to tell you I do have hope that I can get things situated. Get a full time job, that is,” Steve says and it feels like he’s explaining to her his deficiencies.

“What are you most interested in doing?” Peggy doesn’t take the bait.

“Well I’m trained in art, classics. That was a hard sell for the army, but I did have some strategic planning studies and it worked out. But I might try and get a master’s in art history.” He half shrugs. “Of course, I have to get a job to pay for it all first.”

“Where will you start?” 

“I’m trying some of the local art studios. Maybe help out with instruction, but my main issue is that I can’t really hold a charcoal stick the right way. My fine detail skills suck.” 

That gives her a clue. “So you have been trying.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “A little. Not great at all. I feel like a second grader all over again. I’m not even close to where I used to be.” 

They get to the park and Steve directs them to a fenced in area where dogs are allowed to roam off leash. He releases Oliver and the dog bounds away toward a group of dogs. They run through the sparse trees and down the path. 

“I’ve been talking a lot about me. What about you? How’d did you end up in the U.S.?” He doesn’t quite look at her as he asks. She finds it charming.

“My father was in a foreign service. I fell in love with your country when I was only ten. I always intended to come back. Father thought I would be an excellent candidate for the service.” She doesn’t quite look at him as she speaks. It’s hard sometimes to talk of that time, when her life seemed stretched out in front of her.

“But you didn’t?”

She shakes her head. “No. I did. I went into the diplomacy as did my brother, Michael.” Peggy looks down, away from the joyful prancing of the dogs at play. “Michael was taken hostage and killed. Brutally. They broadcast it. I’ll never forget it.”

“God, I’m so sorry, Peggy.” Steve places a light hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t move away. She wants to stand closer, feel his warmth. 

“Thank you,” she says and nods several times. It still brings tears to her eyes. She tries to steady her voice as she speaks. “After that I didn’t have it in me to continue. My father wanted me to, kept pushing me. I stopped. I came to America. I went to school. Got my degree in physical therapy.”

“That seems like a lot, considering you’re so young,” Steve says as he furrows his brow.

“Why, you should know better then to make reference to a woman’s age.” He takes his hand away and she regrets her teasing. “But you are correct. I skipped a few grades, ended up in college very young and actually went into the Ministry by the time I was only 18.” 

“Wow, that’s impressive. I feel a little like a lunk head.” He smirks at her with a wink.

“Well, don’t. That career came and went very fast. I’m happy where I am now. I feel like I can help one on one much better. I feel like I’m on the ground and not just moving chess pieces around in hopes some good will happen,” Peggy finishes and they both fall silent. 

As she watches Ollie race around the dog park, Peggy states, “Your hand and arm are getting stronger. Do you think you’ll try to paint again?”

Steve grimaces and then scratches at the back of his neck. “I did. I got frustrated. Tossed the canvas across the basement. It wasn’t my best day.”

“Sam mustn’t have been impressed.”

“No. But Brock was. Laughed his ass off,” Steve says. His eyes wander to Ollie for a second and then back to Peggy. “Trying to capture something beautiful and not being able to is the height of frustration.” His cheeks color.

“I can imagine.” Her words are soft, nearly inaudible. She has eyes only for him. He leans closer, there’s only inches separating them. She looks to his mouth and then up to his eyes.

The spell is broken then when someone calls Ollie’s name. Steve jerks to the side and Sam’s walking up the path with the Golden Retriever trotting after him. “Steve!” 

Peggy steps back, biting her lips and reprimanding herself. As Sam greets them, Peggy can’t deny it any longer. She wants so much more than she’s allowed. And that’s when it hits her – when has she ever followed the rules – but is this something she can’t break, she won’t break? She needs to decide what path she’s on, she needs to know if she’s interested as well. She can’t hold back, not much longer.


	5. Chapter 5

“Can you show me what you’ve tried?” Peggy asks as they finish up another session. Steve’s arm aches but it’s a good feeling, not something he dreads anymore. It burns warm. 

“Your art, I mean,” Peggy says. “A few sessions back, when we were walking with Oliver, you mentioned that you were trying to paint and couldn’t quite do it?” 

Over the last few therapy sessions, Peggy’s mood has swung wildly and uncharacteristically. His interactions with her feel like being a trapeze artist. At first, he’s catching her and other times, he’s dropping her or falling himself to the ground below with no net. It could be his own feelings getting in the way, coloring their interactions. He’s tried diligently to set his emotions aside for the day and concentrate on the therapy.

He frowns at her non sequitur. “My art? I don’t think I’m ready for prime time, yet.” He shakes his head. He absolutely does not want to have her see the amateurish work he’s managed in the last month. It’s frustrating and embarrassing, especially since the last few attempts have been using her as a model. 

“Oh, come now, I might be able to see an issue.” She shrugs. “Well, if you won’t let me see something, could you demonstrate? It might help.” She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “If you think it might work.”

It’s something he’s done, Steve’s sure. He must have insulted her or made her feel strange about their sessions. Maybe he’s crossed the line too many times. The last time she came over they took a walk to the park without Ollie. It was a nice evening and he thought it would be nice. They’d ended up sitting on a bench, doing some people watching, and talking until the sun gave way to twilight. He’d stepped on air afterward and he knew it wasn’t right. Yet she’d said yes. She’d stayed, even lingered to stretch out their time together. 

He concedes to her request. “Sure. I’ll get a canvas and some paints. Just something quick.” He goes to the utility room in the basement where he keeps his art supplies. The Italian medium he uses can have an overpowering smell, so he likes to keep it away from the rest of the house. Plus, technically, he doesn’t live here, he’s just a guest. He wants to keep things tidy for Sam. Retrieving a small canvas, tubes of raw umber, burnt umber, titanium white, a jar of his homemade medium, a few brushes and an easel with some palette paper, Steve manages to drag most of it out in one trip. With his one weak hand, he’s at a disadvantage but he’s gotten used to accommodating it. 

Steve sets up efficiently. “I’m going to prep the canvas first with medium and raw umber.” The broad strokes of his brush easily stain the canvas with a thin layer of raw umber mixed with a heavy dose of medium. 

Peggy sits quietly to the side as he works. She’s watching him, studying his movements. He tries to ignore her as he covers the canvas. He starts to narrate his process. It takes his mind off the fact that she’s analyzing what he’s doing, how he paints, the mechanics of his right arm and hand.

“I learned how to paint like the Dutch masters. Mainly you stain the canvas first. Most of the time I like to allow the stain to set and dry, but I don’t have any canvases drying right now that I’m not already using. So, we’ll just have to move forward.” The scrape of his paint brush against the material of the canvas fills room.

“Once the staining is complete. I do what’s called an underpainting. I never use a pencil to draw anything on the canvas. My teachers in art school would have fainted dead away if I did that. The process of an underpainting is to show the forms and the light and dark. I use burnt umber for this part.” He pauses as he squirts out some of the paint from the tube. “Painting, drawing, art is really learning how to see more than anything. It’s about seeing contrasts. How the light plays along a shape, molds it so it becomes a 3D object.”

She watches for a while before she pipes in. “What will you paint?” Peggy asks. She’s not expectant, just curious.

“A still life for now. I’ll just do a quick underpainting of the table and the articles on it.”

She glances at the table. It’s filled with books as well as the instruments she uses to strength his hand, mostly for gripping and some for refining his dexterity. 

Picking up the tube of burnt umber again, Steve uncaps it and squeezes out a bit more onto the palette paper. He likes to use paper for quick work. He maps out the design of the still life in his head before he touches the canvas. As he starts, he continues to narrate. “One of the things people who don’t do art, don’t understand is that art is about seeing and relationships. See the objects in relation to one another and to the light and shadow.”

His stroke wavers as his arm trembles from the taxing motion. Under his breath he curses, and then starts again. It’s easy since the paint is wet. “The book in relation to your tablet. In relation to the squeeze ball.” Steve tries to forge ahead, not thinking about the difficulty. This is how it happens all the time. He gets so far with the underpainting and then the cramping sets in.

“Your arm, the muscles. Can you roll up your sleeve?” Peggy asks and drags her chair closer to him.

Steve follows her direction and when she nods for him to continue, he does. It isn’t easy. Each stroke makes the tremor worse and his hand is aching as he moves toward more intricate work. It’s a fast painting so there’s not a lot of detail, but what he can put in just to demonstrate to Peggy his issues, he does. Usually the finest details he would wait until the end to add. When he settles back, Steve cringes at the work. The lines are shoddy, the details weak. At least the measurements and the light and shadow look right.

Disgruntled, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?” Peggy has her hands folded in her lap, she poses no threat, but her eyes drill something into him. He can’t name it, but it bolts through him like lightning.

“I can’t do this, I’m sorry. I’m not an artist anymore. I’m not anything. They discharged me from the Army, because I’m no good to them anymore. I shouldn’t be wasting your time-.” He runs a hand through his hair, but Peggy stops him with her hand.

“You’re not wasting my time. Not at all.” Her hand is soft and gentle against his own. She brings their hands down, entwined. She doesn’t shy away from holding it; she doesn’t release him. He doesn’t pull away either. “I want to be here for you. I find myself marking the days until we can work together again. Your progress is important to me. You’re important to me, Steve.”

His heart shakes in his chest, rattling his ribcage. Steve blinks and stares at their entangled hands. She’s holding his weak hand. Her other hand is touching his scarred skin, where pits carve holes into his muscles from the shrapnel. She doesn’t deserve this weakness. Not on top of what she’s suffered in the past. 

“Th-thanks,” Steve says and pulls away now. He stands up. “It’s time, over time. Right?”

Peggy doesn’t answer right away and Steve’s cleaning up his supplies. “Yes.” Her voice echoes his loneliness. When he spies her, Steve sees that she’s not looking at him anymore. She’s busy with her bag. “I suppose it is.”

The paintbrushes clatter out of his hand as it spasms. “Damn it.”

“Let me help you,” Peggy says and leans down to scoop up the brushes.

“You don’t have to,” Steve murmurs. Any louder and he knows his voice will break. 

“I want to,” she replies. “You’ll find that people like to help. If you let them.” 

He doesn’t retort. How can he? She’s been nothing but kind to him. The walks in the park, the private and free therapy sessions, the kindness in her eyes – it something he goes to sleep at night to dream. He can’t even support himself; he has no right to burden her.

“Thanks.” He picks up the easel and the canvas and heads back to the utility room. Peggy follows him. “You can put the brushes in the tin can I have set up. There’s walnut oil in there to soak them.” As he puts away his supplies Steve realizes his other attempts at painting are stacked around the room.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. So many of them are of her. A few of his mother. A couple of Bucky. But most of her. They aren’t good, not like they should be. But they are recognizable. “I wish they could be better. I wanted to give you one for helping me.”

One has her glancing over her shoulder at the park. She’s smiling and the fall foliage crowns her like an autumn queen. The facial features are blurred and not detailed. 

“This is impressive,” she says as she points it out. 

“My attempt at impressionism. I can’t do the detail, so I’ve been experimenting,” Steve says. “It’s not very good.”

“It’s not very good.” When she says it his heart sinks. “But it is outstanding. It’s wonderful, Steve. You know very well you can do this.”

“It took me too long and I can’t finish it because I can’t add the detail I want. My arm spasmed for hours after-.” He stops. It sounds too much like he’s complaining about what she’s been able to do for him. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” She gazes at the painting. “May I have it?”

It surprises him when she asks. “Hmm. It’s not done?” 

“When it’s done?”

Steve nods. It’s not his best work, but at least he’s not ashamed of it – not like most of the others. It’s not great, it’s not outstanding like she thinks. “I could do so much better.”

She takes his hand. “And you will.” 

When she smiles it teases all his emotions back to the surface again. He swallows them down and exhales. “Well, I don’t want to keep you.”

Peggy clears her throat. “No, of course not. I’ll be on my way.”

It’s not long after that session Steve decides something needs to change in his life. He needs to move forward and stop fooling himself. He’s not going to keep playing a game. He knows Peggy isn’t toying with him - she wouldn’t do that – but he’s guilty of deluding himself. He needs to set himself straight. There’s one way to do that - and that’s by building a future. A real future.

“So, it’s been a few weeks now. You think you’re going to ask her out on a real date?” 

Steve glances up at Sam from his tablet. He’s checking the train schedules to see if he can buy a ticket to visit the Barnes family in the coming week. He frowns at Sam. “I’d expect that from Brock but not from you. You know Peggy’s my physical therapist.”

“I also know the way you look at her,” Sam says. “And don’t compare me to Brock. He’s an ass. By the way, I asked him to find someplace else to live. You want to stay here; I need a new roommate.”

“I don’t have any way to pay, Sam. I’m still looking for a job. Well a real job and not the half time one I have at the grocers.” Just as Steve finishes, Ollie whines at him and picks up his head from his place in the corner of the couch. Fred ignores everyone as he cuddles close to the Golden for warmth. It’s hitting the colder weeks of October. 

“You could come to SHIELD with me. I’m sure they could find a place for you.”

Steve shakes his head. “Peggy’s right. It’s time for me to figure out who I want to be, not just what I’ve been doing because it’s available.”

Sam sits on the edge of the coffee table, hands clasped in front of him. “You’re taking life advice from her now.”

“She’s a thoughtful person, plus she listens to me.” He taps on the ticket page of the website. He doesn’t look up at Sam.

“I listen to you. Ask her out, Steve.”

He looks up then. Sam’s being genuine, not affected or teasing. “What do I have to offer, Sam? Like I said I don’t have a real job. I’m a wounded vet. My progress is slow. I don’t know if I’ll ever get my stupid hand to work right.”

Sam exhales and pushes up, standing. “She likes you. You might not see it, but she does.” He gathers up his jacket. “I’m off. Do you want to come to the meeting tonight?”

Steve considers Sam’s offer. It’s been a while since he’s been to a meeting at the VA. It helps get his head on straight and since he’s at a crossroads it might help him figure out what he wants to do next. He places the tablet on the side table and nods. “Yeah, that would be great.”

“Maybe we can get something to eat after?”

“Not in my budget.”

Sam slaps him on the arm. “I’m buying and don’t you dare say no.”

*oOo*  
The meeting is held not at the VA tonight, but at a small church not far from Sam’s place. A few of the members of the formal group at the VA decided to meet more often than once a week and set up an informal group in the basement of the church. It’s a few veterans, some from the most recent wars and a few from Vietnam. They sit on wooden folding chairs in a circle. On a table tucked in the corner of the room there’s a carafe of coffee and another for hot water with tea bags stuffed into a box. Mix matched ceramic mugs are stacked next to the carafes. Someone stole a bunch of sugar packets from McDonalds. There’s no creamer. Steve made some tea for himself and uses the mug as a shield against the rest of the group, keeping the steaming mug close – an excuse not to speak. 

A big guy with long blonde hair and a hoodie sits not far from Steve. He’s wearing sunglasses in the dark basement. He’s speaking. “I miss my mom. I know, I’m like a thousand years old or whatever and not supposed to cry about it anymore. But when I came home, all I wanted to do was find her and be with her. But she’s gone and I just want to hear her again. Know I’m not a total failure to her.”

“Hey, hey.” Sam tends to lead the group. “Thor, what makes you think you would be a failure?”

“Look at me?” Thor throws his hands up. “I haven’t eaten a salad in years. I’m drunk half the time. All I can see is the death in my head. I wear sunglasses because I don’t want to see the world anymore.”

Steve glances at his right hand. He’s wearing fingerless gloves and his right hand lies in his lap. Useless. He keeps using it as his excuse. “I know what you mean.” He doesn’t realize he said it out loud until Sam turns to him and asks him to elaborate. Uncomfortable but now roped into the conversation, Steve sets the mug down on the floor and then explains, “I keep using my hand as an excuse. All I can remember is my friends dying. Because of decisions I made on a mission. I use my hand as a way not to go out in the world.” He huffs. “My mom is gone too. I know she would be disappointed in me. She always told me to stand up, to keep going. To try and always try.”

“You don’t think you’re trying now?” That comes from a guy where a gray and black stripped hoodie and lounging in his chair so much that it looks like he might slide right off the seat.

“If I’m honest, and I’m always honest, no. Probably not.”

“I haven’t been,” Thor says. “I could try harder, but I might fail and what would she think then, if she were still here?”

“I think we have to keep trying, keep standing up,” Steve says. He thinks of his mom, of what she would tell him. “If we don’t, then what do we have? What would they think?”

“But maybe it’s not about them,” Sam says. “Maybe it’s about you. About what makes you happy?”

Steve thinks of Peggy, of his art, of exploring the world, and standing up for what’s right. “I don’t know.”

Thor answers, “Home. I long to go back to the days of my youth.”

“Then why don’t you?” That’s hoodie guy.

“My family immigrated to the US when I was a boy, I haven’t been back to Norway for ages.”

“Maybe you should take a trip,” Sam says. “Do you have any family still there?”

“A few. My brother might go with me.” Thor straightens in his chair. “I could go there. See the Northern Lights. See my heritage again.”

“Might be a way to get closer to your mother again,” Hoodie guy says.

“This is true. You give me much to consider,” Thor says and takes off his sunglasses. He only has one real eye, the other is glass. There’s scarring along the edge of the fake eye. “To see my motherland again may do me much good, but what about you? What will you do?”

Steve realizes Thor’s asking him for his plans. “I don’t know. My friend’s family, the one who died on the mission, asked me to come and spend some time with them in New York. I’m considering it.”

“But that doesn’t get you to what you should do for the future.” Sam gazes at him, the potency tightens Steve’s throat and he can’t hold his friend’s focus.

“I know. I just don’t have a lot of options.”

“That’s a lot of crap.” Hoodie guy sits up and the hood falls back to reveal fiery red curls. “You’re a healthy guy. You have a lot going for you. Hell, why don’t you model. Your shoulder to waist ratio is amazing.” Steve’s embarrassed more about not getting her gender right than anything that she says.

“Nat,” Sam warns.

“No.” Nat points to Steve. “We all have problems. Look at me. I’m an immigrant like Thor, but unfortunately not legal. Yeah, I’m telling you all in confidence. Don’t out me.” She glares at all of them. The older veterans shift uncomfortably in their seats. “I came here to get my head on straight. I worked for SHIELD. They didn’t care about my status as long as I was giving them the intel they wanted. Well, things went sideways. I ended up not wanting to keep working for them. Now I’m here. Trying to figure it out.”

“If you don’t know what you want, then why do you expect that I would know what I want?” Steve asks, his tone might hold a bitter twinge to it. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t. But you have a lot more going for you than I do.”

Sam holds up his hands. “How about we don’t compare each other’s issues. That’s not what we’re here for.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles and reaches down for his mug. Nat whispers the same. For the rest of the meeting, Steve keeps the mug in front of him, staying silent. Nat pulls up her hoodie and lounges back.

After the meeting, Steve helps fold up the chairs and as he stacks them, Nat walks up to him, hands in her back pockets. “Hey.”

“I wanted to say, I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re going through. At least I didn’t get physically injured. I just got left out in the cold.”

“I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He swings the chair with one hand onto the pile. “Do you know what you’ll do next?”

Nat shrugs. “I have a friend at SHIELD, Clint. I call him Hawkeye. He’s going to bat for me, I think.” 

“That’s good, I’m glad.” Steve finishes the chairs and goes to wash out his mug. Nat trails after him.

“What do you think you’ll do?”

It’s his turn to shrug. “I don’t know. I used to want to be an artist. But I’m right hand dominant and it’s a little difficult without the fine movement.” 

“There’s other art?” Nat offers.

He smiles,; but it’s not one of joy. “Thanks, for trying. Lots of people say the same thing. I think I have to find a different route to what I should do next. I don’t have the motivation or inspiration to create anymore, anyway.” That’s a lie and he knows it, but it’s too difficult to explain how frustrating the act of creation can be to people.

“Then I am sorry. If there’s anything I can do, Sam has my contact information. I can talk to Clint if you want.” 

Steve glimpses Thor across the room. He’s more animated than Steve’s ever seen him. “No. Thanks. I think I’m done with that. I think I have to go back to my roots.”

She grips his bicep. “Good luck.” 

“Thanks, you too.” Steve finishes cleaning his mug as she leaves. Sam joins him.

“You ready to go?”

Steve nods. “I think I am.”

“That sounds like you mean something more than just going out to dinner.”

“Yeah, I might.” It was time to stop the game and time to go home. Find a way to forge his own future. Playing house in D.C. is not what he wants. “I think it does.”

*oOo*

It takes Steve another week and a half to ask Peggy out. It’s not a real date, not in his head. It’s more of a thank you, appreciation meal than anything else. Though he never confessed the reason for the luncheon date, Steve was still surprised when she agreed. Her eyes had been especially beautiful when she’d said yes. It was after one of their sessions. He had planned to just tell her that he was traveling to New York next week. It would be a visit at first, but his long term goal would be to move back home to Brooklyn. D.C. wasn’t his home and though he loved Sam like a brother, Steve longed to be in his old familiar stomping grounds. 

He brought Peggy to a small Italian restaurant in Foggy Bottom. She appreciates it with its fake ivy strung with twinkling lights hung between the tiny tables. The gingham table clothes give a ‘Lady and the Tramp’ feel to the place. When the waiter leads them to the table in the corner, Steve releases a breath. It’s hidden, romantic, and everything he might have hoped for but can’t have. 

“This is beautiful, Steve.”

When the waiter gestures to the table, Steve steps up to offer Peggy her chair. She smiles, slightly abashed and then takes the chair, thanking him. They have parchment menus given to them before the waiter takes their drink order. Steve asks for water and Peggy agrees. 

“You don’t have to, Peggy. You can have wine if you want.”

“No. I’m good with water.” Her eyes are kind and deep. He finds he needs to look away so he thanks the waiter.

Once the waiter leaves, Steve focuses on the menu. “I’m glad you came. I owe you the world.” His hand is functioning. He can grip the menu, though he has not achieved the range of motion or dexterity that he needs. Every word sounds stilted and false. He’s treading a thin line. He desperately wants to drop all his plans and stay in D.C. for her, yet he knows it’s foolish to ask her. He’s nearly destitute. What does he have to offer?

“Well, it’s one step along the way,” Peggy comments. “And you owe me nothing, Steve. You know this is more important to me than just a job. You’re more important.” 

He longs to stop his one-track brain from screaming at him – he needs to be in New York, that it’s the only home he’s ever known, because when he looks at her – all he sees is home. “I’ll miss you.” It seems his mouth is bound and determined to get him into trouble.

“Miss me?” She puts the menu down.

The waiter reappears with their water and asks if they’re ready to order. Peggy shakes her head and stares at the menu. “If we could have a few more minutes,” Steve asks. Once the waiter leaves, he adds, “I’m going to New York next week. I’ll be away for a while.” He can’t say he’s not coming back. Something stops him.

“You’re moving.” Peggy’s too smart for his own good.

“I am. The Barnes have offered me a room in their house. Bucky’s old room. He was like a brother to me. I can start over again in a place that’s my home,” he says, and every word feels like he’s dragging bricks up a hill. 

“I thought you were going to take the room with Sam?” Her features are steel, but underneath he imagines he sees a break, a slight fracture of pain. The quiet moments in the park invade his thoughts, the touch of her hand grasping his warms his cheeks. 

“D.C. isn’t my scene. I want Brooklyn again.” The words choke him. 

“So, it’s done then? How about your physical therapy?” She fingers the edge of the menu.

“I’ll sign up at the VA.”

“And we know how well that will go over.” Peggy sits back. “You’re running away.”

It’s not how Steve saw it when he talked with Thor. Going home felt like the right thing to do, but then again, Thor had an extended family to go home to and his brother agreed to accompany him on his sojourn to find himself. For Steve though, the journey home he thinks of as a relief, an avoidance of the stress of trying to find out what’s next. Maybe it is an escape. 

“Maybe. I just can’t stay here and not know what to do next.”

“What makes you think that going to New York will be any different?” Peggy starts to roll up the menu like she might bat him with it to knock some sense into him. “You talked about taking Art History courses. Or maybe you should try and teach art. You did a wonderful job when you showed me how you paint.”

“You have to be able to demonstrate without having spasms to teach. And I don’t have two cents to rub together, I can’t go back to school.” He cringes at the defensive tone in his own voice. He doesn’t want this lunch to go off the tracks, but it’s careening down into a chasm he’s digging between them.

“So, you’re giving up? Just like that? You’re running home with your tail between your legs. You’re not even going to fight for your therapy at the VA, are you?” Peggy glares at him. Nothing else in the small restaurant exists - just her disappointment and anger. “I thought you wanted to get well. I thought you were happy here. I thought-.” She stops herself. Releasing the rolled-up menu, Peggy stands up from the chair. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

Steve reaches for her. “Please, Peggy. I don’t-.”

“Don’t what? You don’t want me to leave?” She huffs at him. “Well, it seems like we’re both headed for disappointment.” She turns on her heel to leave. 

He stumbles out of his chair and catches her arm, holding her with his right hand. “Please don’t go. You’re right. You’re right. I’m running away. I don’t know where to go or what to do. The only time I feel hope is-.” He stops but her deep expression urges him to speak. “Is when I’m with you.”

She grasps his hand. “Then stay. Don’t leave, Steve.” Her eyes are searching his. “Don’t leave. I don’t think I could bear it. I count the days until our next session. I thought today was the beginning of something new, not the end.”

Everyone in the restaurant watches. Steve doesn’t care. “I didn’t think I could handle something new. That you would really want to take this on. That you’d be willing to wait for me.”

“I’d wait for you, Steve. Always.” 

When she says those words, his knees feel like putty and he has to sit down. They end up back at the table, hands still clutched together. He never wants to let go. He doesn’t want to face the idea that he dreamed it all up. 

Eventually, he finds the courage to speak. “Where do we go from here?”

She bows her head for moment and when she looks up at him amusement plays across her features. “You really have no idea how to talk to a woman.” Grasping both of his hands in hers, Peggy says, “Perhaps we should start with lunch and see what happens from there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I hope you like this little story of romance....


End file.
